


Songbird

by Miso



Category: SCTV (Canada TV)
Genre: (floyds dad was That Kind Of Abusive Parent), (one [1] use of the f-slur and i apologize so much), Childhood Trauma, Homophobic Language, Insecurity, M/M, Singing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-22 21:49:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11975733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Miso/pseuds/Miso
Summary: Earl finds out about one of Floyd's hidden talents.





	Songbird

**Author's Note:**

> OOOOKAY ITS SUPER L8 BUT I WANTED TO WRITE THIS SO BAD. floyd, in my headcanon, is a /really/ good singer. like REALLY good. (the only other member of the core four even close is sammy, who still isn't that great.) if you're wondering what his singing voice sounds like, earl's elvis descriptor isn't all that far off, but i was imagining something more along the lines of hozier but if he was in a 70s rock band. (i believe in one sctv christmas special paul flaherty provides the singing voice of guy caballero; it's a little deeper than i imagine floyd would get but that's also a good reference point.) also, if there's a way to get floyd's point across re: his dad's disapproval without using a slur, please let me know and i'll change it bc its 4 am and i couldnt think of a stronger/more poignant way to word it but as a straight woman i feel like the f-slur is NOT my word to use.

The worst part of Saturday morning location shoots wasn't getting up early on a weekend, or facing a crew that hated his guts. Earl wouldn't complain about that kind of thing (until he'd had a couple of cocktails, anyway). Money was money, work was work. It made him feel like less of a mooch on his well-employed fiance. Even sitting in the sweltering heat or freezing cold or a thunderstorm wasn't that bad, really.

No, the worst part was getting up and leaving a sleeping Floyd in bed. Floyd rarely slept soundly, but when he did, Earl was loathe to leave him. At least when he'd had a bad night, he knew there would be no way it could get worse, if Floyd wasn't already up from a particularly unpleasant dream. When he dozed soundly, bathed in the early-morning sunlight like some golden deity, Earl didn't want to leave. What if his restful slumber was intruded upon by a nightmare? What if he woke up after that nightmare, saw the other side of the bed was empty, and assumed Earl had ditched him in the night? What then?

Earl had taken to writing little notes when he had to leave before Floyd woke up. Ostensibly, they were to soothe Floyd in the morning, when he woke up alone. Deep down, though? Earl knew they were more to make himself feel better. After "the incident" a few months ago, he wasn't going to risk Floyd's mental health taking another life-threatening nosedive.

Today, though, something was different. As Earl quietly opened the front door to slink inside, shutting and locking it behind him to avoid waking Floyd on the off-chance he was still asleep, he noticed the house seemed eerily quiet. The TV wasn't on, no one was in the kitchen. The bedroom was empty, the sheets on Floyd's side of the bed still rumpled, but the note moved from the position it'd been when Earl left. Proof that he hadn't been gone long. Earl pursed his lips in confusion for a second before the sound of running water hit his ears, followed by the most beautiful singing he'd heard in ages.

Either Floyd had a secret singing-in-the-shower habit, or there was a really, really weird robber in the bathroom, and Floyd was tied up in the closet. The most likely (and sane) option was behind door number 1. Creeping to the bathroom door as quietly as he could, Earl pressed his ear against the wood and listened closely.

Over the shower running, he could make out a low baritone humming bits of rhythm before bursting headlong into a particularly intense rendition of "Black Dog" by Led Zeppelin, complete with mimicked guitar riffs. A loud crash cut off the music, followed by a distinctly Floyd-sounding "fuck!" to confirm Earl's suspicions. He wasn't sure whether to giggle at the absurdity of the situation- _he sings in the shower!_ \- or be mildly offended that Floyd had never told him about his beautiful singing voice before.

With a quiet snicker, Earl padded down the hallway to settle himself on the couch with a book and look as innocent as possible. Maybe Floyd would realize he was being listened to when he stepped out of the shower and noticed him sitting on the couch.

He didn't have to wait long. After a few minutes, the bathroom door opened in a plume of steam. Floyd stepped out, towelling his damp hair dry and still, very softly, singing to himself, replacing snatches of "Stairway to Heaven" with humming. He walked straight past Earl on the couch, paused his one-man concert to say "Hey, doll," only to halt mid-stride towards the bedroom, apparently realizing he wasn't alone just a second too late. "... Um. Hhhheeeeyyy." A nervous smile. "How long have you been home?"

"Long enough," Earl answered, a coy smile on his face as he snapped the book he wasn't actually reading shut and approached Floyd, who shifted the towel from around his neck to his crotch. "Oh, come on, Floyd, neither of us has anything the other hasn't seen," Earl admonished him, half-tempted to snatch the towel from his fiance's grip. "You never told me you could sing."

Floyd, already pink from the lava-hot showers he liked to take, turned a fetching red color. "I. Uh." A pause for him to chew his bottom lip and try to think of a plausible lie. "Ah got no idea what you're talkin' about." Ah, yes, the giveaway that he was lying; a little twinge of that mountain accent crept into his voice. Earl cocked an eyebrow skeptically. "What?" Floyd asked, avoiding eye contact as much as he could. "... Sssso I guess some people like my voice. It's not that good."

"Floyd, you sounded amazing, and no one sounds good when they're singing in the shower." Earl smiled, knowingly. "You sound like Elvis on steroids."

"Okay, that's a lie and you know it."

"Maybe." Earl laughed softly. "But you really are good! Why don't you sing when people are around to hear it?"

"... Can I at least put some clothes on before we have our latest big soul-baring conversation?"

***

Floyd sighed heavily as he walked into the living room and settled onto the couch beside Earl. He was already fiddling with a loose thread on his t-shirt. _Oh, that's a good sign,_ Earl thought, keeping his mouth shut as Floyd gathered the salt to start talking.

"I don't sing when people are around because I was never allowed to as a kid."

"Figured." Earl crossed his legs. "Lemme guess. Your dad?"

"Bingo."

"But isn't choir, like, a huge thing with Catholics?"

"That was the only place my dad would let me sing, and they kicked me out when I hit puberty because they didn't need another baritone-bass singer." Floyd shrugged. "So... I quit. I sang when I was alone. If Dad caught me singing anything but hymns he'd get pissed. Especially if it was-" Floyd hooked his fingers into air quotes- "that evil rock and roll music." He twiddled his thumbs idly. "I wanted to try out for the drama club in high school, but it was-" more air quotes- "'for girls and pussies' and 'real men aren't interested in prancin' around singin'. Only faggots do that.'"

Earl winced reflexively at the slur. Floyd barely even flinched letting it pass his lips. "So because I'd had my fill of being called names by the time I was 14, I gave up on it. I figured no one else would want to hear it."

"... Your own dad called you...?" Earl asked, trailing off, not exactly ready to let a frankly vile slur out of his mouth.

"Oh, yeah, constantly. I think he knew and never let on. Why, I don't know, because any other time he'd look for any reason he could to beat the shit out of me. Boris, too. Hell, most of the kids in school. Pretty much my entire senior class was convinced I sucked dick for money behind the gym. I'm used to it, Earl, it doesn't hurt me anymore." A shrug. "Anyway... that's why I don't sing. Unless I'm alone."

"... I want you to sing." Earl scooted closer and laid a hand atop Floyd's. "I like your voice."

"Earl." Floyd pulled his hand away. "That's sweet, but it's not happening."

"Why?"

"You think after 40 years of hearing that I shouldn't, I'm suddenly gonna turn into Frank Sinatra?"

"Well, no. But... if you do, every now and then... I promise it'll be okay."

Floyd sighed a little, rolling his eyes. "Fine. But only because you asked."

***

The next time Earl heard Floyd singing, it was late evening a few weeks later. The pair were settled on their back porch, enjoying the comfortable, sunny weather. Half-asleep from sheer contentment, through the haze Earl caught on to a quiet baritone voice. "You're singing," he murmured into Floyd's shoulder, smiling a little. Instinctively, Floyd froze. "Keep going." Earl snuggled close to his fiance, sighing quietly. "Please."

Hesitation, for just a moment, then an arm wrapped itself around him and Floyd's voice returned. _Sweet Caroline. Nice choice, babe._

***

Slowly, surely, the singing around the house grew more frequent and louder. Quiet, at first, but usually just loud enough for sharp-eared Earl to pick up on. He'd track down where the a capella performance was coming from and stop for a quick embrace, or a kiss. It wasn't just for positive reinforcement. Earl loved hearing Floyd sing. It was something he was good at, something he seemed to like, something that he could make constructive; a trifecta of something that would be good for his mental health. The fact that Earl got to be the sole person that his beautiful fledgling songbird would perform for was just icing on the cake.

Which was why it was a heart-stopping shock when Floyd came into the study one evening, and after some idle conversation and hem-hawing, blurted out "I want to join the Melonville Players." Earl almost spilled his glass of water across his typewriter in answer.

"That's a big step, baby," he said as soon as he regained his composure. "You sure?"

"I... I mean, I saw a flyer at the grocery store the other day that they were gonna do try outs, and..." Floyd swallowed hard. "M-my therapist keeps telling me that it'll be okay if I try and do stuff that's kinda... flouncy, I guess? I don't know, it's... it's stupid. I won't." He was already retreating when Earl interrupted his escape.

"I think it's a great idea."

"... Really?"

"You wanted to join the drama club when you were a kid and you couldn't. You're a really, really amazing singer." Earl smiled. "If it turns out you can act and dance, too, I might die right here because of how talented you are."

"Don't do that. Who's gonna egg me on when I have really dumb ideas?" Floyd smiled a little despite himself. "You... you mean that?"

"Of course." Earl stood and walked to Floyd's side, wrapping his arms around his waist. "I think it'd be good for you to have another social outlet besides basketball. I mean... your social circle is those guys, me, Falbo, Sammy, and Bobby." A gentle kiss to Floyd's cheek. "Go for it. Worst thing they'll do is say no."


End file.
